


To Himling: Part Nineteen

by vetiverite



Series: To Himling [19]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brain Injury, Brothers, Coma, Durin Family, Durin Family Angst, Durin Family Feels, Durincest, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Dwarven Politics, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Espionage, Gentle Sex, Ghost Thorin, Ghost Thrain, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, Intrigue, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seizures, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Tauriel? Who's Tauriel?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:28:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23881552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: A long-awaited party turns up on the doorstep.
Relationships: Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien), Nori (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s), Ori (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: To Himling [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429636
Comments: 13
Kudos: 13





	1. Through the Gates

At half past ten on the day of the waxing quarter-moon, Bilbo reached Thorinutumnu. Just as it seemed the _clop-clop_ of his pony’s hooves had settled in his mind like the tick of a perpetual clock, it stopped, and there before him stood the gate.

And it stood. And it stood. And so did rider and pony, for longer than could possibly be deemed polite.

Travel itself no longer troubled Bilbo, but being prevented from properly completing a journey did. Helmeted heads kept popping up over the top of the stockade to ogle at him. He called to them, but none answered.

_Blast these benighted dwarves,_ he thought. _I WAS invited, after all—_

At that very moment the gate opened a crack, and a familiar figure slipped through.

_Ori!_ Bilbo cried. _I beg you to tell these fellows to let me in!_

The young Khuzd wore an expression as unlike his usual cheer as tin is unlike mithril. As he strode forward to grasp the reins and lead the pony forward, he called up to the guards in a voice strangely harsh: _Let us pass!_

Desperate to break the seeming chill, Bilbo found himself prattling like a magpie. _I’d have arrived sooner, but I took the scenic route. I wanted to see the Havens, and then I thought,_ Wouldn’t it be jolly to look at the ocean! _So I rode along the coast instead of attempting the mountain pass. But the joke was on me, for then I came to a cliffside trail, switchback all the way, cleverly conceived but really very slow to— why, what’s all this?_

In the broad yard beyond the gate, a sea of striped tents confronted Bilbo’s eye. A great many dwarves sallied about, tassels and cloaks and tippets fluttering. A few halted mid-stride to gawk at him; this Bilbo found insufferably rude.

_Are you hosting a circus of some kind?_ he inquired snidely, hoping to be overheard. He was.

_Opa!_ one of the strange garish dwarves called out. _Opa, U-kuduk!_

Shock almost cost Bilbo his seat atop the pony. Westron he expected, but this was Hobbit-speech! _Hh-hail, noble friend!_ he managed to cough. _How came you by our tongue?_

_All along your great river to Sarn Ford we trade._ The dwarf bowed. _Glad always are Spur-Folk to mingle with Shire-Folk!_

As proof, a smattering of _Opa!s_ rose from the crowd. Bilbo made as dignified a bow as the saddle would permit. _Likewise! Opa! What friendly people,_ he remarked to Ori.

_They’re not from around here. But they’re good sorts,_ a grudging Ori allowed—his first words since Bilbo came through the gate.

_And the sentries? Where are they from?_

_You’ve come at an interesting time,_ was all Ori would say. _Look who is here!_

_Here_ was Glóin, shadowed by a younger version of himself. Neither smiled, but Bilbo knew Gróin’s sons to be gruff fellows; no doubt their own offspring hewed close to type. _Well met, Glóin!_ he called out. _It’s good to find oneself back among old comrades!_

_Likewise,_ rumbled Glóin.

_You’re a fur-foot,_ Glóin’s son burst out. _I’ve never seen one before. Do your folk really live in burrows?_

Bilbo rocked back splay-footed in the saddle, then drew himself up tall. _The lad is Glóin writ small,_ he reminded himself. _One must expect blunt speech._

_You can ask your father here_ , he gritted out in a tone as dry as hardtack. _He’s been in mine._

_Most hospitable,_ Glóin muttered. _Dry as a bone._

_We’re going to see the summer caves,_ Glóin’s son informed Bilbo. _They’re much bigger than the hole you live in—_

_Gimli!_ Ori cut in. _Would you please see to Mr. Baggins’ pony first?_ _I’m sure your father won’t mind a later start._

Glóin cast a disgusted look in his son’s direction. _If any start at all._


	2. Approach

As Glóin and Gimli led the baggage-laden pony away, Ori caught at Bilbo’s elbow. _You must think us rude._

_I understood dwarven welcomes to be rather warmer than this._

Regret softened Ori’s demeanor. _Come, my friend. Let’s go up to the house. I’ll explain along the way._

Side by side, the old comrades ambled up a gravel path bordered by firs and aspens. As they climbed, Bilbo’s irritation gave way to concern.

_You said I’d come at an interesting time. Typical dwarven understatement,_ he muttered. _Gandalf has told me some of the boys’ troubles, and very large troubles they are. After all that they have endured, I can’t blame them not wanting a Crown—_

Ori seized Bilbo’s elbow. _Sssh! Voices carry on the mountain!_

_Oh, yes!_ Bilbo moved closer. _Forgive my ignorance. We Hobbits don’t have kings, unless you count the Thain— but he was born in the Shire, and no one will ever pry him out of it. Can’t Fíli reign here in his own country instead of wretched Erebor?_

_Fíli doesn’t want to reign at all, here, there, or anywhere. But the elders cannot know this—not until Dáin is here._

_I remember Dáin somewhat, at least from afar_. Bilbo sniffed. _I do not consider myself entitled to an opinion, but if the boys trust him…_

_Thorin trusted him._

_Then it’s settled. As for the elders, they’d better mind themselves with me. I don’t mince words, as you know._

_You see? This is exactly why we all wanted you here!_ Ori beamed. _We know you; we trust you— and if the elders make noise, we’ll set you on them straightaway._

Soon they reached a second gate, lower and less forbidding than the first. A lone Khuzd waited outside.

_Fíli!_ Ori shouted. _I caught a burglar!_

If it were not for the golden braids, Bilbo might not have recognized him. Stripped of his layers of leather and fleece and fur, Fíli looked smaller than in memory; a stiff, hesitant limp replaced the cocky stride of only one year ago. Bilbo seized his hand and pressed it fervently between his own.

_My dear, dear friend; my old chum,_ he murmured. _How glad I am, how very glad to see you._

_You came. Kíli—_ Fíli corrected himself. _We, Kíli and I—_ A smile, apologetic but true. _We’re glad, too._

_That includes me,_ said Ori. _I’ll see you both at supper. Opa, U-kuduk!_ With that, he started back the way he came.

As they passed through the gate, Bilbo watched Fíli closely. In profile, the young prince looked so like Thorin it gave one a start. Then he spoke, and through his voice wove an echo of Thorin’s melancholy: _Ori told you of our troubles._

_He did. I do apologize for my inopportune timing—_

Fíli stopped him with a pained look. _You were invited. Some folk here were not._

_Why don’t you chuck them out? That’s what I do with unwanted guests._

A grin, now. _Not all of them._

_Indeed. But those I let stay must suffer my meddling ever after._ Bilbo clapped his host on the back. _I’m afraid you’re for it._

_So are you, for our troubles aren’t ended!_ Fíli touched Bilbo’s shoulder. _But we’re glad you’ve come to share them. Kíli’s beside himself, did Ori tell you? Ever since you were spotted on the road this morning, he’s been in a fever to see you. I’ll take you to him, but first let’s get you to Mother._

They had come upon a beech-shaded courtyard, lovely except for a preponderance of bees. _Large_ bees. Really exceptionally large and strangely _familiar_ bees.

_Beorn?_ Bilbo asked.

_Beorn,_ Fíli affirmed.

He held open an iron-bound wooden door set into a great stone wall. Bilbo stepped through and found himself in an ordinary, cluttered mudroom. He wiped his feet on the mat and waited for Fíli to scrape his boots on the jack, then followed his host into the unknown.


	3. Locket

Given what he knew of dwarven architecture, Bilbo expected a hall so vast you could drop the whole Shire into it. How gratifying instead to see an ordinary kitchen! True, the hearth was large enough for a half-dozen hobbits to dance in. But the light blazing from its depths spoke the common tongue of home, and scents of warm milk and fresh bread assured the weary traveler of comforts to come.

Two dwarven ladies sat quartering potatoes at a broad wooden table. They rose as Fíli and Bilbo entered— and then Bilbo spoiled the moment with an unmannerly gasp.

_You are Mister Baggins,_ said Dís, anxiously clasping her hands.

_I— I—_ Bilbo gawked at her, at Fíli, back and forth and back again. _But you’re— but she’s—_

_Dís, daughter of Thráin, sister of Thorin,_ cautioned Fíli. _My mother._

_Mister Baggins, welcome to my house,_ Dís began again— hesitantly, for she seldom spoke Westron except with Tharkûn. How small the fur-foot was! She knew she was staring but somehow couldn’t persuade herself to stop. Her face prickled; she wanted to cover it with her apron—

Fenja calmly took over. _Opa, Mister Baggins. We’ve got a room all ready for you, and water heating for your bath._

By now Bilbo had mastered himself. He bowed first to Dís, then to Fenja. _I’m obliged, much obliged, and very deeply honored. At your service, at your service._

_You—_ Dís refused to allow him to leave the room without some better memory of their meeting. _You have come from far away to make our Kíli happy. We are the grateful ones._

Bilbo bowed three or four more times before Fíli caught him by the elbow and led him out.

_Oi! What was all THAT?_ he hissed.

_Don’t you ‘oi’ me, young man! Your mother—_

Fíli warned him quiet with a wildcat’s hiss: _Ffffhhht!_ Grabbing Bilbo’s sleeve, he hustled his guest fifty paces further and around a corner before prompting him again. _What about my mother, now?_

_Oh!_ Bilbo huffed, his patience come to the end of its skein. He yanked at his jacket lapels and pointed his finger directly at his friend’s nose. _I’m well aware that Dwarves love secrets, but I never thought you were prone to telling lies!_

_Lies?_ Fíli strove to look as forbidding as Dwalin _. I don’t think I’ve ever lied to you._

_Not you; Óin! He showed me his locket, and he told me— he said— well, it’s a cruel trick!_

Finally perceiving that Bilbo meant to pay a compliment rather than an insult, Fíli relaxed into mischief. _Are our women too beautiful for you?_

_That is my point!_ Bilbo’s voice had turned adenoidal; he was squeezing the bridge of his nose. _When you’ve been told they look like dwarven men… not that dwarven men are unattractive, by any means. You and Kíli… Thorin…_ He reddened, then righted himself, slapping his hands against his thighs. _To be promised clay, then handed the Arkenstone!_

At last Fíli smiled. _Mother is reckoned a rare flower among our folk._

_If Óin’s wife in truth is even half as lovely…_

_We think so. And Glóin’s wife is her sister— wait until you see them side by side._

Bilbo mused for a moment over the prospect, then stamped his foot like an angry hare. _But I still don’t understand the trick with the locket!_

_All the men of our folk carry them when we travel. Sometimes with the same exact picture! Óin and Glóin tell people it’s their wives; Bombur claims it’s his little sister._ Fíli coyly lowered his eyelashes. _Thorin carried one of Mother, you know. She etched it herself, in ivory. She was laughing so hard she almost ruined it!_

_Oh, you… You Dwarves really are…_

_You were right when you said we love our secrets. I’ll share one with you. We used to joke that the Elves were so delicate, we couldn’t tell the men from the women. When the Elves asked us what our women looked like, we told them we had the same problem, only the other way around. And they believed us!_

_Had they never seen a dwarven lady before?_ asked an incredulous Bilbo. _As ancient as they are?_

_No. Our women hid long ago. They don’t like to be stared at, you see. It’s very rude._ Fíli nudged Bilbo’s shin with the side of his foot. _In any case, we kept the rumor going, and Men only added to it. They think even a little hair is ugly on their women’s faces, so when they heard that ours had lots, they assumed they must be hideous._

_So it’s a joke on Men, too— not just Elves and poor, unsuspecting Hobbits?_

_With Men, it’s no joke._ Suddenly somber, Fíli lowered his voice. _They’re strange. They think women are things to be stolen. What they can’t steal, they smash._ Even in the dim light of the corridor, his eyes blazed. _Isn’t it best to make them believe we’ve nothing worth taking except what we carry in our packs?_

Now Bilbo’s expression clouded. Fíli took his elbow.

_Come on,_ he said with kindness. _Bath first, and then I’ll bring you to Kíli. He’ll find the locket story funnier if you tell it._


	4. Hospitality

_No wonder Hobbits and Dwarves get along so well,_ Bilbo thought.

The chamber in which he stood was windowless and warm, bathed in amber lamp-glow. On one low bench, a set of new-sewn garments and a soft felt robe lay neatly folded. A spacious bed, a well-cushioned chair, and a crackling fire completed the happy picture.

Servants arrived, hefting a copper tub of stupendous size. Others followed, carrying water-kettles, towels, and toiletries. When all was made ready, they silently bowed themselves out, and Bilbo melted in relief. How he had dreaded the idea of bathing dwarf-style, in front of a crowd! Gandalf had teased him for nothing.

Later, as he fumbled with unfamiliar tunic ties, there came a rap on the door. Ori and Dori entered, bearing between them a tray. Bannocks, cheese, ripe red pears, tea.... _Smoked silvertip from the Lefnui delta,_ Dori informed Bilbo. _A gift from the Spur-folk— very fine._

_Ah, the Spur-Folk! I met them outside. Generous, are they?_

_Oh, yes,_ said Ori, shaving the cheese into parchment-thin ribbons. _But helpless to feed themselves. They brought plenty of victuals, only someone else must cook it._

More door-rapping: Nori this time, accompanied by two dwarven women. Like Dís, they sported hair on their faces, but patently softer, finer, and fairer than that of their menfolk. The taller woman – a stern, brisk blonde clad in simple linen – tapped her own chest and said _Haya_ , nothing more. The other – dark-eyed, auburn-curled, rather eccentrically dressed – bowed to Bilbo with a flourish.

_Opa, U-Labingi!_ she sang in Shire-talk. _Hail, Sir Baggins! Here is Jera, who meets you with joy in her heart!_

_Opa, dear lady, and very well met by me!_ Bilbo replied, then switched back to Westron. _You come from the Spur, yes?_

_It’s true!_ Beaming, she held out her skirt and swayed prettily from side to side. Next to her, Nori flushed with pleasure.

After the last particle of food had vanished, pipes and flints appeared in every hand. Bilbo’s tobacco-pouch bulged with brandy-cured Old Toby, enough to share with all. Though not as potent as the Longbottom cultivar, Old Toby’s marriage of flavor to fragrance made it perhaps more highly prized— and thanks to Smaug, Bilbo could well afford to treat.

He waited until every pipe was full before bringing out a second packet of leather tied with a cord. _I’ve a special medicinal blend for Kíli,_ he announced. _A lady I know name of Mrs. Bolger makes it. You see, her daughter Harebell was thrown from a cart and struck her head, and ever after—_ He caught himself and coughed. _It’s not the same, of course—_

_It’s kind of you._ Dori’s large calloused hand fell on Bilbo’s shoulder. _Perhaps your Mrs. Bolger will best our healers. What’s in her mixture?_

_Equal measures of skullcap, mallow, mullein, and catmint mixed with Southern Star pipe-weed, two parts to one._

Every dwarf in the room looked to Haya, who nodded. Bilbo regarded her with curiosity.

_Haya cares for Kíli when he’s ailing,_ explained Nori.

_Haya_ takes care of _Kíli when he’s ailing,_ Dori corrected. _She_ cares _for someone else._

Ori turned rhubarb-pink.

The door opened without a knock this time; it was Fíli, looking crisp in a grey-green tunic. _Kíli’s ready for you,_ he said.

No one else rose, which surprised Bilbo. _Aren’t you all coming?_ he asked, tucking Mrs. Bolger’s packet under his belt.

_Kíli sees enough of us every day,_ said Ori. _And he won’t like everyone goggling at him if he cr—_

_Fffhht,_ hissed Fíli.


	5. Offering

Bilbo expected to be led deeper into the earth, as at Erebor. Instead Fíli guided him up and up. As household sounds faded away, he rallied his nerve: _I hope that the sight of me won’t agitate Kíli._

_It won’t. Mother didn’t speak idly; your coming here will make him very happy._

_Ori told me he’s had a hard go of it._

_There are things he forgets that he’d rather remember, and things he wants to forget that he can’t. He may not seem himself, at least not as you remember. But he’s Kíli just the same._ As he spoke, Fíli drew a meandering line along the stone wall with his fingertips.With a jab of pity, Bilbo recognized his friend’s nonchalance for what it was: play-acting to stave off pain.

The final stairwell deposited them onto a landing lit by true daylight and smelling of the sea. At its far end was an oaken door banded with plain iron. _Our room,_ Fíli said proudly, and Bilbo recalled Gandalf’s explanation of Khuzd customs: _The more lavish the treatment, the lesser the trust. They’ll show you to the fanciest chamber and toast you to the rafters— and never show you one glimpse of what they’re thinking. But in a humble room, passing one bottle and sharing one pipe, they’ll open their hearts wide._

_Zanid, it’s us!_ Fíli called out.

An unseen bolt slid; the great door shivered and jerked open.

_I ought to have known better,_ Bilbo later confessed to Gandalf. _Ori and Fíli had changed; why should Kíli alone have remained the same?_

_Because you wished him to,_ Gandalf smiled. _Anyone would._

And of course Gandalf was right. Bilbo wanted the Kíli of last summer, red-cheeked and bonny, bright as a meteor flashing across the sky. But if this sallow stranger was as Fíli promised – _Kíli all the same_ – he must hold out his arms as if he believed it.

Though smaller in stature than Men, Khazâd are far larger in presence. What space they carve out for themselves in the world, they inhabit with confidence. Kíli’s exuberant spirit had once stretched to the horizon on every side. Now it fluttered around inside him like a trapped moth. A shocking scar marred his right temple; an elusive sadness darkened his eyes. But love poured from him like light from a wide-open door. It was as Fíli promised: he remained _Kíli,_ simple and true _._

He swept Bilbo up in a fervent bear-hug, and to his own surprise, Bilbo gave back just as fiercely. 

Behind them, Fíli murmured words in a language soft as featherdown. _They will never permit you to hear the father-tongue,_ Gandalf had told Bilbo. _But family-tongue –_ cradle-speech, _as they call it – is different. If they speak it in front of you, you’ll know that they consider you kin._

Whatever it was that Fíli chanced to say, it lit some sort of fuse in Kíli; he suddenly spun Bilbo around and pushed him toward the door. Without preamble, the bewildered hobbit found himself being rushed back up the corridor, pulled along by his wrist.

Around several corners he and Kíli lurched, ending their journey in a vaulted chamber lit by flickering lamps. Before them stood a massive golden screen upon which Thorin – as stern and splendid as in life – vanquished some foul serpent at swordpoint. Before Bilbo could fully take it in, Kíli steered him around it, depositing him in front of a plain granite altar. 

A strange array of objects spread out before them: forge tools, food offerings, more lamps, even an old pair of boots. On the wall above hung a harp Bilbo recognized at once. Untouched by any hand, it chimed, and he let out a gasp.

_It’s fine,_ said Fíli, catching at his sleeve. He had followed more slowly on account of his limp, and had just arrived. _Uncle knows that you’re here._

Kíli had knelt before the altar, his brow on the ground. He appeared to be praying. After a few minutes, he sat up, roughly scrubbing his wet cheeks. His fingers enclosed Bilbo’s wrist, gently this time. _Uncle came to you in a drrr… dream._

_Indeed he did_.

_Did he tell you about us?_

With both siblings watching him closely, Bilbo felt it best not to dissemble. _No; he left that to Gandalf._ He squeezed Kíli’s hand. _But Thorin did ask me to look after you, if I could. He said you needed your friends close by— so here I am!_ He called up to the harp, _Hello, Thorin. You see I’ve kept my word._

A deep, satisfied hum issued from the harp’s sound box.

_I’ve been told – by Gandalf, actually – that altars such as this are made to show remembrance,_ ventured Bilbo.

_They are. These are mostly Uncle’s things, but we’ve put our own here, too,_ Fíli replied. _Do you see that knife there? We made it, Uncle and I, on my first day at the forge. Mother added those pine cones; she and Uncle played with them as children. The painting of our house is Kíli’s._

_Is anyone allowed to offer gifts to Thorin, or just family?_

Fíli studied Bilbo with soft eyes. _No one who is family ever need ask._

_Ah! Speaking of gifts…_ Bilbo took out the leather packet and handed it to Kíli. _A smoking blend made by a healer whose skill is famed throughout the Shire. Smoke one pipeful a day— but not here, surely!_ he protested, watching Fíli extract a pipe from his sleeve. _Won’t it anger Thorin?_

_As much as_ he _smoked?_ Fíli chuckled. _Look again at the altar; you’ll see his pipe. We fill it for him all the time._

_Does… does he actually smoke it?_

A familiar sly look passed between the brothers, and Bilbo instantly knew to change tack. _I’ve brought Thorin’s tunic with me,_ he hastened to say. _I thought perhaps there might be occasion for me to wear it while I’m here._

_Wear it tonight—but not with the mithril shirt!_

_Oh, I’ve not brought that._ Bilbo reddened. _It’s too precious. I keep it nicely locked up and safe._

While Bilbo bowed his head before the altar, Fíli lit the pipe and passed it to his brother. Two deep drags in, and Kíli’s shoulders lowered. Another two drags, and his gaze began to wander around the room, touching on everything and nothing in particular.

_Is it working?_ Fíli’s brow furrowed.

_Oh, I should say so. But let us ask the patient himself. Kíli!_ Bilbo patted his friend’s back. _Kíli! How do you feel?_

At the sound of his own name, Kíli turned his head slowly. It seemed to take him a marked effort to pull Bilbo’s words apart and put them back together. _Strange,_ he replied. _But good. My head feels… oh, it’s quiet, Fíli._

Fíli kissed his brother’s cheek. _Quiet’s good, yes?_

_Oh, yes,_ smiled Kíli. 

___________________

Later, while dusting, Haya would find an acorn among the tools and oil-lamps. She left it alone. Every object on the altar had a right to its place; how it got there, one mustn’t wonder. Still, she nudged it with her finger, jumping a little when one of the harp strings let out a sharp _ping!_

_I beg your pardon, I’m sure!_ she exclaimed.

Unseen, Thorin shook his head, grinning.


	6. Two Alike

_Names are a funny business,_ Bofur once told Bilbo. _We Dwarves go through ‘em like cards in a deck, dealing ‘em out as suits the situation. I’ve gone by at least a dozen names, myself— if not more._

_But at the end of the day, you are Bofur,_ insisted Bilbo.

_Naw ‘m not. Don’t misunderstand me!_ continued Bofur. _I’ve always liked Bofur; I’ve worn it for years like a trusty old coat. But it’s not my real name._ That _, I give to no one._ His laugh resembled a crow’s caw, a creaking hinge. _It almost wasn’t given to me!_

_Whatever do you mean?_

_Would you give a youngun a barrel of powder an’ a match? Dwarven names are_ sacred, _Mr. Baggins!_ The mine-man took a quick swig of brandy, a sip of which Bilbo had already politely declined. _They’re the biggest secret any dwarf keeps. I couldn’t be trusted with mine until I was… oh, thirty-five at least._

_I knew_ my _name before I could walk,_ replied Bilbo, staunch in the face of dwarven absurdity. _A family name; my great-grandfather’s to be exact. I take great pride in that point. It is the_ ONLY _name I will ever be known by._

Bofur grinned. _Naw ‘tisn’t._

This was true. A year from that night, Ori would confess to Bilbo that in addition to _Master Burglar,_ the Company had called him _Dumpling, Deadweight, Brave Sir Handkerchief, Lord of the Larder,_ and (thanks to Beorn) _Little Bunny_. But they’d also called him _the Locksmith, the Riddle-master, Minnow_ (for his ability to ride whitewater and slip through foes’ fingers) and – last but never, ever least – _Friend of Thorin Oakenshield._

Bilbo also learned that Dwalin called Balin _You Great Haddock,_ and Balin called Dwalin _Old Beetle-Brow_ , but only when they felt affectionate. Nori openly called Dori _Motherdear;_ in turn he was dubbed _Brigand_ and _Cur_ (but also _Swallowtail_ for his homing instinct, which pleased Dori in spite of his grumblings). Bifur, who had only _iglishmêk_ and his chosen trade to frame his thoughts, nicknamed everyone except Thorin after toys. Bilbo was _Poppet._

_Rhymes with ‘hobbit’,_ said Ori, as if that would help.

Back to Bofur. He took a deep breath as if preparing to sing a long ballad. _Here’s the way of it among our folk. When you’re born, your Da gives you two names— one that’s secret and one for everyday. Then your grandparents get hold a’ you. More names, mostly to do with your pretty dimples. Y’never want those spoken outside the house. Leave home, make friends: they give you nicknames. Enemies: same thing. Y’meet Men in the towns, and they calls you as they sees you—Shorty, or Miner, or You There Wit’ The Fireworks. Follow so far?_

Bilbo did not. The idea of so many names bandied about like tokens confounded him. _If no one knows your real name, then how does anyone know YOU? How do you even know yourself?_

_Aha!_ Bofur leaned close, holding out the lapel of his jacket. _Get a snoot a’ that,_ he said. _Go on!_

Shrugging, Bilbo took a cautious sniff. Woodsmoke. Pine needles. Leather. Sweat. Sheep’s wool. And then… He jerked back, frowned, then leaned in again. Was that black pepper? And a honeyish smell… Woodbine!

_I’ve a balm I wear,_ Bofur stated proudly. _Mine, made only for me. Every dwarf has their own. No two alike._

_Do you buy it in a shop?_ Bilbo asked, imagining an apothecary full of dwarves milling about, sniffing and dabbing—

_No._ Amiable eyes sparkled. _Our mams give it us. They carry and birth and nurse us, and all the while they’re studying us. They must know us head to heel in order to make the scent that’s ours lifelong. Names fade and are forgotten, Mr. Baggins. This –_ he offered Bilbo his collar again _– never does. THAT is how we know ourselves. And soon you’ll come to know us by it, too._

Bofur spoke the truth. Over the course of many fireless nights in the wild – nights so black you couldn’t tell above from below – Bilbo learned to distinguish his friends by nose. Cedar meant Dwalin; tobacco meant Balin. Bifur smelt of wintergreen herb, and Bombur of almonds and sloe honey. Rich aromas of orris and saffron inevitably heralded Óin and Glóin, but Ori and his brothers blended in with the forest— wood and fern, water and stone.

As for Thorin, his scent could never provide camouflage. He smelled of rare resins, fine leather, highland blossoms far beyond the reach of the Shire. Until Gandalf brought him Thorin’s tunic, Bilbo had despaired of ever encountering that singular fragrance again. Now it seemed he carried it with him.

Tonight, the feast-hall swirled with a hundred scents mingling together. You would think that one small hobbit would be lost in the throng, but everywhere Bilbo walked, staring dwarves stepped out of his path. 

_Is it because I’m small, or because I’m a stranger?_ he asked Ori.

_Neither. It’s your tunic,_ his friend explained. _It smells like Thorin, so it confuses everyone._

_Have I my_ own _smell?_ inquired Bilbo rather anxiously.

_Oh, yes._ Ori’s eyes crinkled with mirth. _Soap. You know— the kind used to wash pocket-handkerchiefs._

Kíli had taught Bilbo how to share breath in greeting, so he soon learned a few new signatures: rich velvet roses and suede for Dís, cool aniseed for Fenja, prickly rosemary and pine for young Haya. Jera’s father wore a balm sharp with sage, while her brothers… oh, who could keep track? But Óin’s wife Hinaen and her sister Minaen, Gimli’s mother, could never be forgotten so easily. 

_Every bit as lovely as Fíli had promised,_ Bilbo thought. _And their balms put the flower gardens back home to shame._

_Bilbo! This is Bofur’s sister!_ cried Ori. _You must come and meet her!_ And Bilbo did, discovering not only the same twinkle in Deilis’ eye, but in her scent a thread of woodbine that led back to her brother.

One thing niggled at Bilbo’s mind, however. _Two_ things, rather. 

As always, Fíli and Kíli conjured fresh sap and sweet meadow-herbs under a high summer sun. But where once there had been a subtle variation distinguishing one brother from the other, now they smelled identical. They had gone from sharing a theme to sharing a scent entire. 

_No two alike—_ Bofur had been most emphatic on that point. Had Bilbo misunderstood? Or was it a trick of the nose? Once again he corralled Ori, but this time his friend offered only a vague half-smile. 

_Well, isn’t that interesting,_ Ori mused, gazing into the middle distance. _You’ve cultivated quite a keen nose, Bilbo. Keener than mine, for I never noticed._

With he turned and – to Bilbo’s everlasting surprise – melted into the crowd.


End file.
